


Movement of the Bow

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, aomido week 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:16:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midorima takes Aomine to see a string quartet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Movement of the Bow

**Author's Note:**

> for aomido week day 3: dates

Midorima frowns at the stage. He’d thought they’d managed not to get here too early, but apparently any arrival time that means more minutes of Aomine fidgeting in his seat in a tuxedo counts as heavily premature. So far this hasn’t been anything like a dream date, or even close to what Midorima considers an above average date—perhaps the performance, if and when it finally starts, will remedy that. Midorima adjusts his cuff and checks his watch again—they’re still several minutes away, several minutes that seem as if they’re epochs waiting to take their slow serial ascent and descent.

Aomine taps his foot, restless—he’s always in motion, always itching to go and do even when he’s at his most lazy and listless. He’ll lie back and stare up, tapping his thumbs off-beat against whatever surface he’s lying on, almost like some kind of percussion player but with no discernible pattern to the sound, or flipping through the same magazine over and over again, or twirling a basketball on his finger. When he sleeps he flexes his feet, reaches out for Midorima and then later lets him go or pushes him to the side of the bed—it’s annoying and a bit endearing when it’s that late at night and they’re alone. But this is more grating than anything else, a reminder that Aomine isn’t used to this, as if he’s a small child who’s just putting up with it, impatient to get home or get away. 

The movement is contagious; Midorima feels a little bit twitchy, too, shifting his position (it doesn’t help that these seats are uncomfortable). Aomine doesn’t seem in the mood to talk, and Midorima has no idea what they’d talk about, anyway—there’s nothing left to say about dinner, about the evening, about what the weather will do, and Aomine’s made it clear that he’s not particularly looking forward to the performance. And that, thinking about it, not in the abstract but now that they’re actually here, makes Midorima bite his lip and look into his lap. He’s been assuring himself all along that Aomine will have a good time, that he will have a good time, but what if they don’t? If Aomine finds it boring the way he finds Midorima’s classical recordings boring, if the violist isn’t the crazy virtuoso she’s been hyped up to be, if the tuning is off—and Midorima knows that if Aomine is truly dissatisfied, he won’t be happy, either. Just getting Aomine to agree to do this in the first place was a harder battle than Midorima had really prepared for, and even that victory will come tumbling down like badly-balanced dishes in the sink if Aomine doesn’t enjoy himself here. 

The lights begin to dim; Aomine stretches out and Midorima wants to lean over and hiss that they’re not in a damn movie theater but the audience is quieting down and he doesn’t want to be heard right now, so he just sinks lower into his seat. At least classical concerts generally aren’t like rock concerts where the audience ends up waiting three quarters of an hour past the scheduled start time for one reason or another (or none at all). And then the quartet itself makes its way onto the stage to a smattering of polite applause (including Midorima’s but not Aomine’s). Again, Midorima feels the urge to shift in his seat, but this time he suppresses it, letting his thumb twitch on the armrest but not much else. 

They sit, tune, and eventually begin; the piece sounds ordinary enough at first (Midorima hasn’t heard this one before, but he’s heard good things about it); he keeps glancing at Aomine, whose gaze is fixed forward in more of a staring-into-space than any actual interest in the performance. The violist seems good so far, well-taught with a nice technique but nothing special—and then the key begins to modulate and her fingers and bow seem to almost fly across the string and her technique goes from average by-the-book to something Midorima’s never seen before. The quality of the music turns urgent and mournful at once, centered on the viola—the violins embellish and the cello supports but the viola shines through, sharp and poignant. Midorima bites his lip again; this time something inside his stomach clenches. 

He hasn’t looked at Aomine in a while, but just as he’s about to Aomne’s hand clutches his on the armrest; his fingers slide between Midorima’s fingers and he squeezes. Midorima squeezes back and then looks over; Aomine’s still staring ahead but this time there’s an intensity in his eyes that Midorima never expected to see in this situation, like the look he gets when he’s about to do a ridiculous crossover in a tight game. He’s leaning forward in his seat, and his free hand is clenched; Midorima’s breath catches in his throat. He runs his thumb over the back of Aomine’s as he turns his head back toward the music; the violist is slowing down and this section is fading into a less-frantic section that’s a bit more cheerful.

Aomine doesn’t let go of Midorima’s hand through the rest of the piece; through every part of every movement their fingers remain tangled. Midorima doesn’t feel the need to look over (well, if he’s being a touch more honest with himself he doesn’t trust himself to do so in this situation). Only when the piece is over do they let go to applaud; Aomine’s hands smack against each other hard but actually fairly polite (but at this point Midorima doesn’t know if he should be surprised at all). But then the quartet begins the next piece and Aomine’s hand rejoins Midorima’s, clasping it loosely. This one is not as moving, but Aomine is no less engaged with it, still leaning ahead with his eyes fixed on the musicians. His fingers tap Midorima’s palm, but in tempo with the piece, adjusting with the musicians. A warm feeling like melting butter is welling up inside Midorima, despite this piece’s brisk, no-nonsense feeling. So he shifts in his seat just a little bit, bringing himself closer to Aomine.


End file.
